


The Tower - Origins: Fenrien

by LittleMissSyreid



Series: The Tower: Series [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dark Elves, Dökkálfar | Dokkalfar | Dark Elves, F/M, Ljosalfgard, Ljós-Alfar | Ljosalfar | Light Elves, M/M, Álfheimr | Alfheim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-11 02:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15305412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMissSyreid/pseuds/LittleMissSyreid
Summary: In the run up to the sequel of my fairytale mash-up, The Tower, discover the story of everybody's favourite elf and how he came to meet our intrepid heroes...In the realm of Alfheim, political tensions are rising as a new group of elves are gaining traction in the courts of the capital city, Ljosalfgard. When tension become conflict and conflict becomes life-threatening, Fenrien and his friends are forced to run. Though their options are limited, the quick wit and mind of Fenrien Antillion De Augustino offers them an escape, bringing the band of refugees to the glittering gates of Asgard...





	1. Chapter 1

“So,” Thor announced to the room as his mug was slowly returned to the tabletop, “I must confess that I have been sat drinking with you fine people all evening, yet I could not describe a thing about you!”

Loki leaned down to kiss your shoulder, before murmuring into your skin, “and whose fault do you suppose that is.” A guilt-ridden smile stole a place on your lips.

After the final toast of the evening – ‘To the Tower!’ – conversation had been bubbling like a newly boiled stew. Warm. Inviting. Homely. The alcohol had settled into everybody’s bloodstream nicely, loosening lips and easing countenances.   
“I beg of you,” Thor continued, oblivious to his brother’s whisperings, “tell me something about yourself that I do not know. You are friends of my family, and so you shall be friends of mine.”

“I believe we were promised a tale or two about the florist we met earlier,” you offered, raising your eyebrows as you watched Fenrien over the edge of your cup. “Care to share?”

After you’d suggested it, sounds of agreement echoed from all present company until finally, Fenrien held up his hands.   
“Very well, very well, my friends. I did indeed promise to divulge with you,” he smiled, tucking a lock of his golden hair behind his ear.

However, he’d barely finished speaking when his face fell. His head also dropped in kind.   
“The story of myself and Elandor… is the same story that details my arrival in Asgard. Though I must warn you that neither of them are particularly pleasant.” Jarle slipped his hand into Fenrien’s under the table. Fenrien smiled appreciatively.

“Alright then. Here we go.”

* * *

 

Alfheim. The realm of the elves.

The Light Elves were comprised of many denominations; an array of culture and colour, the people of Alfheim were as joyous as they were diverse. There were Elves of the Sea, down by Hummingbird Bay, dining on Starfish souffle in the halls of coral castles. The Elves of the Air built flying contraptions, spending their times among the clouds and the stars.

And then there was the house of Augustino.

The region of Antillion, adjacent to the woods of Wysteria, housed a small cottage, yellow in colour as sunlight touched pale stonework and pale windowsills at any hour of the day. Greenery grew up the brickwork, stretching like the arm of a mother towards her child. Surrounding the borders, a lush and vivid garden bore many colourful flora. Petals of auburn and orange, pink and plum, golds and regal silvers littered the lawn like beads on an emerald tapestry.

Once upon a time, Fenrien Augustino lived with his parents in the cottage of Antillion. However, when their time passed, Fenrien found himself the sole tenant, though never wanting for company. Each day, before sundown, Fenrien’s neighbour – a man by the name of Solmund – visited with his daughter, Frida. She was a petite girl, frail in stature and in health, but one would not have guessed it, the way she lit up when she saw her neighbour’s face.

“Fenrien!” she squealed, bouncing forward with her hands outstretched. “Fenrien, it’s me!”  
“I know that it is you every time you visit,” he grinned, walking around the countertop and embracing her on his knees. The bottom floor of Augustino’s home had been converted a year and a half ago. It was now the base of operations for his floristry business that stretched all the way to the capital city, Ljosalfgard. Lashings of green covered the carpet and the counters; leaves, stalks, and roots, all plucked from newly grown crop.

Frida was lifted high into the air and spun around, before being sat upon the edge of the counter. Fenrien returned to the working side of it and picked up where he’d left off, trimming the bottom off of a yellow rose. Frida picked up the small leather gloves that had been gifted to her two birthdays ago, before beginning to tug the leaves off of a lily.   
“Who are these for?” She asked.   
“You know Isena, don’t you? She’s seeking engagement with her wife and these are for the proposal.”  
“How exciting,” Frida replied. “Then I will have to make sure these are extra, extra special.”  
“Don’t you always?”  
“It depends on who it’s for,” she murmured, tilting her head as she began to tear more roughly. “I do not like Zedona very much so I did not try to do a good job for him.”

* * *

 

“Let me get this straight,” Loki interrupted suddenly, gathering everyone’s attentions suddenly and startingly, “you were _also_ a florist?”  
“Are you going to interrupt every five minutes?” Jarle snapped, gripping Fenrien’s hand a little tighter as irritation bled into the intoxication.   
“No, I’m simply… requesting clarification.”  
“Then request it at the end.”

“Boys, please,” you chuckled, kicking Loki’s shin under the table. “Save your _bickering_ for afterwards, if you please. You were saying Fenrien? Frida and this… Solomon had arrived?”  
“Solmund, yes. Where was I?”

* * *

 

Solmund rolled his eyes with a fond smile and stepped forward, hands on his hips. He was a tall, strapping man, of dark skin and darker hair that stretched in a long braid from his neck to his knees.   
“Fenrien, my friend, how do you fare?”  
“As well as I am able,” he chuckled. “Yourself?”

The response Fenrien received was a deep and heavy sigh. Catching sight of the trouble in Solmund’s face, he cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong again.   
“Frida, love,” he began, “would you gather some of the wild lilac from the back garden? I fear we will not have enough for this bouquet.”  
“But we’ve got a whole bucket and-”  
“Oh, of course, you’re right as always,” he interrupted. “But of course, I actually meant the geraniums which there are visibly none of, as you will note.”  
“But-”  
“The _geraniums_ , little one. Run along.”

Solmund smiled warmly after Frida disappeared out the back door.   
“Many thanks, my friend. I would not discuss this in front of her.” Fenrien wiped his brow with his arm.   
“I wish that you would not discuss it in front of _me_ ,” he chuckled. “You know how politics disagrees with me.”

It was true that every time Solmund wished to discuss the tidings of the courts in which he worked, Fenrien appeared to come out in a rash. An unhappy coincidence or an unlikely causality? Nonetheless, he’d decided one too many times ago that he did not care to find out unless it was completely necessary.

“There’s a new political force present in Ljosalfgard,” Sol explained. “They call themselves ‘The Dark Council’. They’re elves unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Pale faced. Bulbous black eyes. But elves nonetheless. Terrifying.” Fenrien quirked an eyebrow.   
“The Dark Council? Are they serious?”  
“Deadly so, I’m afraid, and I am not the only one to have concerns.” Solmund rubbed the back of his neck and began to pace the floor. “There’s, uh… There’s a group of us…”  
“Oh, Sol, you didn’t,” Fenrien sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose.   
“Can you blame me? They’re called _‘The Dark Council’_ , Fen! Dark elves! You would really consider them trustworthy? They might as well be called the Conspiracy Team or the Murder Tribe.”  
“And we are Ljós-Alfar, Light Elves to many. But you’ve seen, Galotl. He’s as heavy as he is gluttonous. Hardly befitting of our namesake.”

Turning away, Sol hid the boyish smirk that rose to his features. Fenrien wished that he wouldn’t. Sol’s smile was a handsome one and removed some of the lines of single-father worry that littered his face.   
“Their name is just a metaphor,” Fenrien assured him. “I’m sure of it. An alternative to the current regime. It is nothing more.”

Solmund sniffed, smiling sadly at his friend.   
“I worry about how little you know of the world, tucked away in this flower shop,” he said, approaching the countertop and placing a hand on Fen’s shoulder.   
“The outdoors is for the flowers,” Fenrien smiled wistfully. “I have no need of sunlight as they do. I daresay I should not complain were I to be locked up for a whole year without it!”

* * *

 

Fenrien woke late the next day. For some reason, he’d been simply unable to stir with the sun that morning and had promptly decided to delay the start of his work day until noon. He stepped downstairs in nothing but an oversized cotton shirt on to brew tea. Oh, if only he had someone to share this day with! A husband or wife perhaps; the pair of them wearing barely any clothing whilst sipping tea in the early afternoon daylight. Fen sighed contentedly. Yes, that would do nicely. The thought alone brought him much felicity.

After daydreaming for a moment longer, Fenrien finished his drink, dressed himself with more modesty, and picked up his gloves. He had only a few hours before Sol and Frida would be upon him.

Or so he thought.

Fenrien had barely begun his day’s work when the door to his shop burst open. Sol leapt inside and threw his weight back against the door, slamming it closed behind him. Frida was in his firm grasp, her arms around his neck and her face in the crook of it. Once the door had been bolted, Sol turned and peered through the small, circular window, deep, gasping breaths fogging up the glass. He looked – to put it simply – panicked.

“What, ho?” Fen chuckled as he rounded the countertop. “Are we playing an elaborate game of hide and-”  
“No time, my friend,” Solmund panted, bolting the door and running further in. Frida ran to his waiting arms, where she was lifted onto his hip.   
“Sol? What’s-”  
“Ljosalfgard has fallen,” Sol said. “Queen Aelsa is dead. The Dark Council attacked the palace an hour ago and the rest of Alfheim is next.”


	2. Chapter 2

“We have to get out of here,” Sol mumbled, over and over, his hands in his hair. His long braid was frayed and wild. “We… We have to get out of here.”

Frida was on the ground now, stood by Fenrien’s side. She slid her hand into his and squeezed.   
“Daddy, you’re… you’re scaring me,” she said. Fenrien picked her up and put her on his hip. She coughed harshly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

There was a knock at the door that put everybody in the room on edge. It bore a strange rhythm to it, made up of 7 successive knocks. Sol, however, seemed to heave a sigh of relief. He swung the door open.   
“Where in all the realms have you been?” Sol hissed.   
“There is no time for dialogue, friend,” replied the stranger. “They’re moving faster than I feared without resistance. Gather your loved ones and let’s go.”

* * *

 

Fenrien’s heartbeat thundered against his ribcage; an earthquake in his chest. Every breath out of his lungs was red raw. They stung his throat and dried his mouth. No matter how much he licked his lips, they felt like a desert without an oasis. Not even a mirage of moisture on his tongue.

Everything was on fire. Fenrien’s eyes had become coins, brassy spheres, as his eyes were filled with images of the world he called home going up in flames. Seas of people swum amongst the carnage, screaming in fear as their home crumbled around them.

Frida quivered on Fenrien’s hip, coughing more and more often as time went on. Her health had never been perfect, but the blood-stained smoke that swirled above her head undoubtedly didn’t help.

The Dark Elves were not far behind. The sounds of their destruction rained like a terrible thundercloud from behind. They’d swept the nation of Alfheim with fire, explosions, and dark, dangerous magic. Carnage and fear followed in their wake. Explosions erupted around them every so often, littering the ground with debris – and sometimes limbs.

A bespectacled man was one of those fleeing from Ljosalfgard. With no children in his arms, the man was faster that Fenrien but careless. When an explosion to their left drew screams from the masses, the man misplaced his footing. He hit the ground. Hard. The building to his left groaned suddenly, and the bespectacled man looked up in time to see it topple.

Fenrien turned away at the last minute. He shielded Frida’s eyes and crouched down. Brickwork and rubble showered his back. Frida buried her face into his chest, whimpering quietly. Even Fenrien couldn’t deny the shake that had set into his bones. He was panting hard, staring fiercely at the ground under his feet, trying not to shed a tear.

When he finally stood and looked up again, there was nothing left to see expect a pile of stone, a growing crimson puddle, and a pair of broken glasses.

“D-Don’t look, little one,” Fenrien said, keeping his hand on the back of Frida’s head. “Keep your eyes closed. Head down. Don’t look.”

No sooner had he turned a circle, staring in wide-eyed disbelief at all the carnage, did he feel a hand on his shoulder.   
“You can mourn later,” said the stranger from his front door. “But now we must run.” And so Fenrien returned to his state of disarray. Earthquake in his chest. Sandpaper in his throat. Desert on his lips.

The stranger, a man by the name of Elandor, guided Fenrien by the shoulder towards the other rebels. Solmund could be seen in the distance, ushering frightened citizens towards the forest’s edge.   
“Quickly, quickly, deeper inside, go!”

The shadows engulfed Fenrien, bathing him in shade and a welcoming change in temperature from that of the village’s burning corpse. He took a moment’s respite and looked behind him.

The Dark Elves were truly terrifying, formidable foes. Their pallid, expressionless masks struck fear into the very blood that pumped readily through his veins. He watched them cut their way closer, striking down all who opposed them and all who were simply in the way. They moved like a single organism, terrifying swiftness and uniformity bringing them closer and closer to Fenrien’s quivering form. He felt like a hunted animal; petrified at the sight of his predator.

“The forest will not stop them,” Fenrien whispered. Elandor’s head turned and his expression hid nothing.   
“Perhaps not, but it may conceal us well enough that we are not so easy to slaughter.”

It was as if the Dark Elves had heard them. The hoards of marching men, swathed in black, halted at the border of the Wysteria Woods. Their masks stared forward, blind and unfeeling, as someone pierced the crowd and stepped forward. A leader. Members of the rebellion gathered around Elan and Fenrien. Confusion-riddled faces watched with confusion as the trees seemingly forbade entrance to the mysterious army.

However, as these things often go, it was too good to be true. Fenrien narrowed his eyes when the leader pulled a strangely shaped orb from his hip. Only too late did it sink in that it was an explosive. A grenade. Foreign to the eyes of Alfheim, but unequivocally lethal in the hands of these villains. It seemed so effortless. With as little as a flick of their wrists, death was wrought upon the shadows. The distant canopy slowly grew into a canvas of amber as the woods were set alight with infuriating efficacy.

The cacophony of fleeing footsteps was gradually outmatched by the sound of the screams that penetrated the darkness. Weeping; shrieking; crackling fire. Fenrien winced as the noise filled his ears. He could feel Frida shaking his arms. Solmund’s face was fear-stricken. Even Elandor looked out of his depth.

They had survived… simply by choosing the left half of the forest to flee into over the right. The entire eastern woodland perished, along with all those hiding within. Fenrien knew it wouldn’t be long before the Dark Elves turned their attentions elsewhere. They weren’t so stupid as to only half-finish a job.

Sooner came rather than later when Frida’s coughing fit began again.

The leader of the Dark Elves turned his head fiercely – and something inside Fenrien snapped. He felt his back straightening, his chin rising. _Not the child_ , he thought to himself. _Take what you have already got, because you will not have her_. _Over my dead body_.

“Run,” he commanded calmly, as the hoard turned in his direction. The survivors surrounding him took heed of his words. “Stick to the edge if you can. Though frightening, it will protect us. They wouldn’t ignite the kindling so close to their face.”

Solmund appeared at his side shortly after the chase had begun, finally taking Frida back into his care. The elves were already pursuing, though they’d admittedly got a head start. Even the fire from the first grenade had begun to chase them, licking at their heels like a viper.   
“We cannot outrun this, my friend,” Solmund hissed. “We cannot stay in the forest forever, but we cannot leave it either. We are to die by fire or die by the blade. It is simply a matter of choosing!”

“I have already chosen,” Fenrien replied smoothly. “I choose to live.”


	3. Chapter 3

After a few minutes, Fenrien’s lungs were beginning to burn. His legs ached, and his neck stung.   
“Why do they not venture inside?” Solmund wondered aloud, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of the floating black swarm with masks that hunted them.   
“If I had to guess?” Fenrien replied between deep breaths. “To uphold the ultimatum. Currently we are cornered between fire and the blade. If they pursue us any further, they remove one of those risks. They’d give us a chance at escape.”

Frida was getting heavier in Solmund’s arms. Her head rested on her father’s shoulder, her forehead tucked into his neck. She continued to cough, the thin entrails of smoke burrowing in through her nose and tickling her throat.  
“Daddy, are we okay?”

Solmund looked worryingly at Fenrien.   
“Uh, yes, pickle, yes. We’re okay. Are you okay?”  
“I’m… I’m a little tired.”  
“Okay, pickle.”  
“Are you tired? Do you want me to walk?”  
“No, pickle. I should carry you for now.”

Fenrien ran a hand through his hair, the sound of Solmund’s conversation breaking his heart. He had no solution to this. He’d asked these people to run, he’d given them hope, the kindling that their passions currently burned on. If he couldn’t figure things out soon, however, he’d have their blood on his hands. He’d have simply delayed the inevitable and led his flock of lambs to slaughter.

“Are…” Frida yawned. “Are we going through the secret door?”  
“What’s that, pickle?”  
“The secret door. In the woods. In the tree. It’s where I hide for…” Frida yawned again. “For hide and seek.”

Solmund looked around and shrugged in bewilderment.  
“Perhaps it is a fairytale of some kind,” Elandor offered, having caught up for the latter part of the conversation. “Or a story!”  
“Not one I’ve told her, if it is.”

Fenrien knew better than the guesses of his counterparts. This was real. A real door. Perhaps their ticket out of here.   
“Hey, little one,” he said, slowing down to a jog. Placing his hands under her armpits, he lifted the little girl onto his hip. “Do you want to play hide and seek now? You and I, versus your old man?”  
“Right now?” She yawned.   
“ _Right now?_ ” Solmund agreed. Was this really the time to be following up on fairytales. The Dark Elves had slowed to a halt next to them. No doubt they wondered what the rebellion had in store; however, they’d only wait for so long before they lit their final grenade.

“Right this very second,” Fen grinned, placing his hand over the infantile fist which now clung to his shirt. “I bet if we find this secret door of yours, we’ll win in a heartbeat!”

Frida pondered the proposition for a second, blissfully unaware she held the lives of her family in whatever response she gave.   
“Okay,” she said, before coughing frightfully once again. “Let’s play.”

Leaning upwards, directions were whispered into Fenrien’s ear. When he rushed into the cloud of smoke that built around them, his followers wasted no time in following him.

Though nobody could see it, the leader of the Dark Elves smiled wickedly behind his mask. Finally. They’d decided. Death by fire after all. He pulled a grenade from his belt, lit it, and heaved. The sphere exploded not ten feet from their faces, spitting fire like a newly woken dragon. No matter what happened now, Alfheim was no longer home to the light elves.

* * *

 

“Where to?” Fenrien asked, covering his mouth with his sleeve as the bitter taste of ash settled onto his tongue. He’d let Frida down so that she could lead the way, her energy seemingly returned by the promise of play. She toddled forward insistently, dragging Fenrien forward until she decided that he was a dead weight. Wrenching her hand free, Frida shot off on her own.

She launched herself at a particularly thickly-trunked tree – and disappeared out of sight.

Solmund blinked and shook his head fervently. His surprise was shared by everyone in the current party.   
“It’s… It’s real,” Elan whispered, slowly growing a smile and beginning to laugh with disbelief. “It’s real! It’s a way out, it’s-”  
“-suspicious.” Sol folded his arms and approached the tree. “I mean, this thing just swallowed my daughter whole and who knows where it goes! How can we trust it?”  
“Are you asking because you think I know?” Fenrien chuckled, placing his hands on his friend’s shoulders and attempting to rub the tension out of them. “Wherever it leads will be better than this place, I dare say. She discovered this sometime ago and, by the sounds of it, has ventured back many times since. So, who will be the first to follow her, hm?”

One by one, the last surviving members of the Light Elves stepped into the bark of the tree and disappeared out of sight. The would-be rebellion leader, Elandor, firmly shook Fenrien’s hand before following, determined to express his heartfelt gratitude. It was clear to Elan that he was no longer the sole leader of these survivors.

Finally, it was only Solmund and Fenrien left to depart.   
“After you, my friend,” Sol grinned, gesturing to the wooden portal. The blaze was almost upon them, golden heat warming their faces to an uncomfortable degree. The scorching light illuminated the change in Fenrien’s eyes, which Sol noticed all too late.   
“Actually, I… I think I will stay,” he said.

Solmund scoffed.   
“I’m sorry?”  
“If we go through there, all we shall do is bring a war to whomever resides on the other side. They can just as simply follow us if they find our path but not our bodies. No, someone must stay to ensure that this tree is destroyed by the fire once its purpose is fulfilled. You have a daughter to protect so it must be me.”  
“But Fen, there-”  
“-is no other option. It must be me.”

For a moment, Solmund considered fighting. He considered shouting, and screaming, and even pushing his neighbour through the tree’s trunk just so that he’d save his own skin. But ultimately, he knew he was right. He admitted as much aloud.   
“I usually am about these sorts of things,” Fenrien chuckled morbidly, crossing his arms.

They hadn’t much time to say goodbye, but he’d be damned if that stopped him. The two men embraced suddenly and tightly, holding onto each other as though it were the last chance they’d ever have to do so. Because it was.

A small tear escaped the corner of Fenrien’s eye as the weight of the situation finally settled in. He didn’t want to die. If it meant that his family would live, however…  
“I _will_ protect Frida,” Sol said firmly. “It is a father’s job to protect their child.”  
“I know, my friend.”   
“Which is why it cannot be you who does this.”  
“What?”

“Look after her for me,” Sol sniffed, grabbing Fenrien’s shirt suddenly and throwing him towards the tree’s think trunk. Fenrien saw a flash of blue as a sudden weightlessness overcame him. It ended just as soon as it had started and suddenly he’d hit hot, dry soil on the other side of nowhere.

Scrambling to his feet, Fenrien yelled in protest and threw himself at the bark from whence he’d just emerged. To no avail… This time, his flesh met only solidity. The fire had swallowed the tree; the portal was gone. _Solmund_ was gone.

“Why, my friend, did you do such a thing…”

Fenrien felt warm tears spill thick and fast, streaming down his cheeks. The crowd of survivors gathered around to watch as he bowed his head and pressed it into the rough wood. It took a moment but eventually he calmed, if in the way that a sea calms after the storm. Angry. Seething. Ever as dangerous as before. The fight was over, but the war was lost. Emotions swum through the air as the waters settled. Rage, upset, and grief all amongst them. Some were simply tired and grateful for an end. Others would have spilled blood at a second chance to change things.

No, Fenrien soon realised. It was over now. All that could be done now was tend to the survivors. Survivors like–

“Daddy?” came a small voice.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days.

For two days the group trekked through the woods. Despite the shade, there was sweat on their brows; despite their pace, they panted like dogs; all of this due to their new leader.   
“Fenrien,” Elandor moaned. Fenrien wasn’t listening, marching forward like he knew exactly where he was going, like he wasn’t on the brink of exhaustion.

“Fenrien, please. We’ve got blisters on our blisters. Let us rest.”  
“We’ll find help soon, I’m sure of it.” Fenrien stopped next to a tree with low-hanging branches. He considered climbing it to re-navigate from a height. Elandor ducked under the branch and popped up on the other side, placing his hand over Fenrien’s.   
“My friend, look at our people.”

Reeus and Inreus, the twins, had taken the momentary pause to collapse onto the cool earth, closing their eyes and sucking in some large, steady breaths. Reeus’ hand slid into his brother’s and squeezed. Mytris too sat down, about two feet from the snoozing twins. She pulled her left boot of and began to rub the sole of her bare foot. Rosy pink blisters were indeed visible. She winced when she waggled her toes, but bit her lip and returned her threadbare shoe to her foot. Sylphine had been a doctor back in Alfheim. She’d been carrying Frida ever since her coughing fit had started up again. Syl placed her down to tend others. Frida looked positively exhausted.

There were plenty who looked much the same, but it only took the sight of those faces for Elan’s point to sink in. Fenrien’s head dropped. So caught up had he been in securing his group’s safety that he’d forgotten to think about the short-term.   
“I just…”  
“I know,” Elan said, squeezing Fenrien’s hand slightly.

After finishing her examinations, Sylphine wandered over to the tree as Fenrien began to climb up it. She watched him for a moment before requesting a quiet word with Elan.   
“She’s not well.”  
“Who? The girl.”  
“Aye. Without treatment, I…” Sylphine rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “I… can’t fathom how much worse her condition will become.”

They continued to discuss the situation until Fenrien’s feet hit the ground.   
“There’s… a city… Oh, a glorious city,” he panted, stretching as he stood up. “It’s not far. Perhaps a day’s walk at best.”

Sylphine shot Elan a pointed look and he placated her with a hand gesture.  
“Fenrien, please. We are all _exhausted_. Frida is unwell. Not all have your energy. We must make camp here for a while.”

When Sylphine returned to Frida, who was now sitting up against a tree, coughing gently, Fenrien sighed. He spoke softly, to Elan alone.   
“Rest then. I will trek ahead on our behalf. I will return as soon as I can with supplies or support, whichever I discover first.”

* * *

 

Fenrien walked like a man reborn. He couldn’t say quite what spurred him on in particular; in part it was Frida’s declining health, but equally it was the proximity of the glistening capital city. The elusive culprit for his lifted spirits had nonetheless put a skip in his step, a lightness in his heart, and a smile on his face. He whistled in tune with strange foreign birds as he stepped into the sunshine at the edge of the forestry.

A road! Fenrien bent down and touched the gravel path with his hand, running the sediment through his fingers. If he could lead the party here, they’d no doubt feel as much hope as he.

And if his mood had been bright before, it consequently doubled at the sight of the caravan not 20 yards from where he currently crouched. It was old and battered, bent metal making a triangular roof that was attached to the bowing base. The strange technology that powered the vehicle allowed it to hover a few inches above the ground, floating gently in the air. A small canvas awning protruded from the side, bathing the owner in shade as he rocked casually in his hook-like chair. A trail of smoke rose from the end of the long, silver pipe sat between his lips.

Checking both ways, Fenrien crossed over and positioned himself in front of the snoozing gentleman. It was only after clearing his throat a third time that he awoke with a cough and a snort.   
“Who are you? Whaddya want?!”  
“I wish… I wish to make a purchase,” Fenrien stammered, wondering what sort of manners this place sported.

Immediately the businessman’s demeanour changed. It made him looked much younger than he sounded, fierce sideburns trailing down his face, and greasy brown hair pulled into a braided rat tail.   
“Well, why didn’t you say so, young man? How can I help? What are you in the market for? Exotic bugs? Rare jewels? Weaponry forged in cold fires?”  
“Food,” Fenrien said. “And medicine, something to help cure frailty.”

“Right this way, right this way,” the shop owner grinned, gripping Fenrien’s elbow and steering him to the front of the caravan. He yanked a panel out from the side of the caravan and heaved out a drawer containing bread, fruit, and vegetables, beautifully arranged in rows. Another drawer just below it contained several silver foil pouches.   
“‘Fraid I got no fresh meat for you, but-”  
“This is perfect, truly,” Fenrien exclaimed, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll take it.”

“Well, now, hold on, you haven’t paid for it yet!” He chuckled, beginning to load things into a brown satchel. “What have you by way of coin?”

Rummaging through his pockets, Fenrien’s heart suddenly fell. No, no, no, no…  
“One gold… and- and- and a few silvers.” He pulled the money from his pockets and held it on flat, begging palms. The businessman rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head.   
“That won’t do, I’m afraid. It’ll cover the food, or the medicine, but not both.”  
“Please, good sir, we _need_ both. We’ve been travelling for days and my… my daughter, she grows sicker by the hour. My people are starving.”

“Then your people ought to pay for it,” the businessman growled, placing the satchel down behind his feet. Folding his arms, he then looked up at Fenrien, scowling, until he seemed to notice something. His expression swiftly changed. “Unless…”  
“Unless what? What will it take?”

* * *

 

Frida slowly forced her eyes open. She could feel someone shaking her gently; it was rattling the pebbles in her brain. She wished the rattling would stop, she was very, very tired…

“Hey, little one,” Fenrien whispered, stroking the hair on top of her head. “It’s me. I’m back.” Frida groaned and tried to roll over. “No, no, no, come on, it’s time for you to wake up. I have medicine for you, see?”

Sitting up, Frida rubbed her eyes and blinked sleepily. When her eyes fell upon Fenrien, she gasped.   
“Your hair is gone,” she whispered, reaching up to touch the shaved remains on one side of Fenrien’s scalp. It was true that the payment for Frida’s medicine had been steep.  
“It is?” He smiled. “Well, that’s not good, is it? I must’ve dropped it somewhere! Tell you what, once you’re back on your feet, we’ll go hunting and try to find some more for me, yes?”  
“Maybe we could glue some straw on it,” she yawned, before opening her mouth so Fenrien could tip the contents of one of the sachets onto her tongue.   
“Hey now, I’ve been told that my hair is…” Fenrien looked away morbidly. “I’ve been told it’s very valuable. Beautiful and rare. Can we do no better than straw?”

Frida grimaced as she swallowed the medicine down. That was far too salty. Much worse than what she normally took. If this was the medicine of their new home, she didn’t think much of it.  
“Fine. Then I will learn to use a wheel and spin the straw into gold.”  
“Much better,” he smiled, planting a kiss on Frida’s forehead and settling her back onto the makeshift bedroll of leaves and moss. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you when I’ve cooked something to eat.”

* * *

 

The fire crackled and spit, filling the forest with gorgeous golden hues. The smell of roasting food filled the nostrils of the elves who dozed around the flames, the warmth lulling them to blissful sleep. For some it would be a calm night; for others it would be riddled with nightmares of rubble. Blood.

Fenrien finished sharpening a stick and plunged an apple onto the end of it. He rolled the knots out of his shoulders before settling onto the soil and holding the spear over the fire. Sylphine stood up and handed her own stick over.   
“I’m just going to give Frida her second dose of medicine. Can you keep cooking this?”  
“Sure. Take some water from the pale over there for her to wash it down with. Apparently, she’s not keen on the taste of this new stuff.”

Sylphine picked up the pale, accepted a pouch of medicine, and wandered over to Frida’s sleeping form. Despite her one bout of treatment already, she was no better. It was likely the severity of their current predicament that had worsened her condition. Both Sykphine and Fenrien were hopeful that the second sachet would have a more noticeable effect.

And it did.

Frida began to wretch and gag, before rolling over and vomiting horrifically onto the earth. Her little body quivered; Sylphine began to panic as she scraped the girl’s hair out of her face. Immediately, Fenrien was on his feet, discarding the semi-cooked food onto the floor and scrambling closer.

There was no way this was a side-effect of the medicine. Fenrien snatched up the empty foil pouch and dipped his finger inside. He sniffed. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was only when he touched the powder to his tongue that he recoiled.   
“What? What is it?” Sylphine asked when Frida had stopped vomiting. She still shook horribly, further depleted of the vital nutrients and hydration that she already lacked before.

“It’s… It’s salt,” Fenrien growled. The pouch was crumpled in his clenched fist. “The bastard sold me salt.”

A horrific wave of realisation washed over Fenrien suddenly. His stomach plunged. He stormed back to the campfire and seized one of the spears. He took a large bite from the bubbling apple – and immediately spat it back out.   
“It’s rotten. The food is rotten, and the medicine is fake.” Fenrien ran a hand over the shaved side of his head. “We’ve… I’ve been conned.”

Frida began to cry suddenly, and, honestly, Fenrien felt like joining her. Sylphine gathered the child up into her arms, shushing her in vain. Frida wept more and more, clutching her tummy and sobbing about the pain.   
“What’s going on?” Elandor mumbled sleepily, sitting up and stretching. The sound of a child’s crying was not the way to be awoken. It raised concern and questions, answers to which he wasn’t getting forthwith. Fenrien was pacing the floor like an agitated bull.   
“That bastard… That rat bastard… I’ll– I’ll go back. I will. I’ll go back and I will… _do_ something. The fool must have his own means of survival, living on the road, so I’ll take the bread from his table if I have to!”

Elandor was understandably confused. Between the weeping women and Fenrien’s ramblings, there weren’t many clues as to what the hell was going on. However, he was soon beginning to wish that he hadn’t wondered.

Frida hadn’t stopped coughing between her wretched sobs. No longer was it cute little spluttering, but horrific wretched hacking. Globules of blood hit the floor, and Sylphine – completely unphased – continuously wiped the edges of the girl’s mouth with her sleeve.

Suddenly the coughing stopped.

Fenrien’s head whipped round. Frida lay limp in Sylphine’s arms. No matter how much the nurse shook her, the girl wouldn’t wake. A trickle of blood was still coming from the corner of her mouth.

“No…” Fenrien whispered. He strode over and picked up the child. Sylphine was crying and crawled towards Elandor. He’d woken up to another massacre. “Wake up,” Fenrien said, stroking Frida’s hair with growing frenzy. “Come on, little one, wake up. It’s alright, I’m going to fix this, I promise. You can… You can wake up now.”

It took an hour for Elandor to pry the corpse from Fenrien’s person. That night the forest filled with the sound of a foreign lullaby, as six lost souls sang an angel to sleep.

When the song had finally ended, Fenrien stood. The dying embers of the fire cast red hot shadows across his face. Another shadow, infinitely more frightening, was also visible in his eyes.   
“Bury her please,” he snarled. “She should be with her parents.”

When he turned on his heel and stormed into the forest, Elandor was quick to follow.   
“What are you going to do?” He asked.   
“What is necessary.”  
“That’s ominous… What are we to do in the meantime?”  
“At first light, head for the city I saw and seek the asylum we came for. Do not wait for me.”

“What?” Elan scoffed. “Why?”  
“Because if what I intend to do goes well, I’ll be arrested, exiled, or shot.”


	5. Chapter 5

“And so, I was thrown into Asgard’s prison where I waited for my demise or my release, whichever came first,” Fenrien smiled wearily, running the edge of his finger around the rim of his empty wine mug. For some reason, the effect of the alcohol had worn off. He could feel the grizzly pain of his tale raking across the chambers of his heart. It had been a while since he’d thought about Frida; he now remembered why he’d tried to forget. Jarle tucked a piece of hair behind his lover’s ear fondly, and for a minute he could see the tufts of darkened hair where his cut hair hadn’t quite grown back yet.

Thor had excused himself a few moments ago, upon mention of palace horses arriving at the scene. He gripped the windowsill and bowed his head between his shoulders. Yet another mistake, he scolded himself…

You excused yourself from Loki’s side so that you could follow him, and Loki watched as you wrapped your arms around the sovereign’s waist and held on as tightly as you could, cheek pressed into his spine. He patted your clasped hands before using the same hand to wipe away a tear from his cheek.

“If nobody has anything to say,” Fenrien said. “I think I shall retire to bed. It has been… a long time coming. Thank you for listening to me.”

Fenrien had not been gone long before Jarle excused himself and followed. Thor was still by the window, accepting words of support from you and then Brynjolf. This left Loki on his own. That was always dangerous.

His mind couldn’t help but wander, sinking further into the depths of his despaired mind and tormenting him with images of an all too familiar face. His own.

 _Who are you to judge?_ The voices whispered. _You mourn for the child – for the elf – because you know them. You know their names. What about those you didn’t know? The ones who died in a city called New York? The children. The caravan owner may have been a con man but he had to pay the bills; you con yourself if you are think you are above him, better than him. You are nothing more than a–_

“Loki?”

He heard your voice breaking through the water, like the beacon of a lighthouse, dragging him away from the siren’s call. However, as his focus cleared, he realised why you’d done so. The clenching of his fist was fierce, the expression on his face even more so. His fingers had wrapped themselves around the neck of his glass – and snapped it cleanly in two.

You edged closer to his frozen form.   
“Are you… alright?” Loki turned away. When he felt your fingers touch his shoulders, he realised how tense they were. How high up. Even Thor watched his brother with concern. Had the story touched him so deeply?

“I fear I am not alright.”  
“Well, we can see that, pebbles,” Brynjolf chuckled morbidly. He was hyper aware that you were stood next to the man whose face indicated he was about ready to explode. “We’s asking why.”  
“Because I should be in the cell next to that man. I have killed thrice as many in even more horrific ways. I am the poison in the powder that she ate. I am the fire that burned their homes. I am-”  
“-a drama queen and an attention whore,” you interrupted, moving your left hand from Loki’s shoulder blade to his hair and ruffling it manically.

Loki blinked and, along with everyone else in the room, glared at you. A stupid smile was on your face.   
“Did you forget the bit where you _did_ sit in a cell for however long? Before being moved to an even bigger, even worse one?” Thor’s mouth parted marginally. “In penance for what you did, there were many who wanted to see you rot. And when I found you, that’s what you’d done. You were a shell of a person, all but withered away. Hollow. Rotten. The part of you capable of murder perished with it, or you’d never have been able to get out.”

Thor’s eyes narrowed and Loki could feel his brother’s stare. You still didn’t know about the bandits in the woods. But that was different surely! ‘Twas simply vengeance. He was defending your honour! Loki knew the second that he thought it where Thor would stand on the subject; your honour could have just as easily been defended by throwing them in prison. Perhaps he was a drama queen.

When Loki bowed his head, you leaned down to kiss it.   
“The story was not about you, nor was it for you. Twisting it to earn a little sympathy is not a habit to get into. Let Fenrien make his peace and do so with him.”

It wasn’t helping him feel better, but Loki knew you were right. He resolved to tell you what he’d done to the bandits, hoping that doing so would allow him to ‘make peace’ with it, as you’d said.

“You’re right, love. I will let this go and hold onto something else.” Grinning wickedly, Loki leapt up, grabbed your waist, and threw you over his shoulder. You kicked, and yelled, and beat him with your fists; over the sound of their laughter, Loki bid Thor and Brynjolf goodnight on both of your behalves before swiftly exiting the room.

The sound of your protests could be heard all the way down the corridor.


End file.
